


When They All Come Filing In

by Ahaha_Soup



Series: Of Gods and Greatness [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst?, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, Blood and Injury, Gen, God Philza, God Tommyinnit, God Wilbur Soot, God technoblade, No I do not regret anything, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Violence, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade are Twins, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Yes I wrote this at 2am, its techno what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29236680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahaha_Soup/pseuds/Ahaha_Soup
Summary: How Philza, Techno, Wilbur and Tommy come into godhood.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Of Gods and Greatness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144139
Comments: 22
Kudos: 295





	1. God of Creation

**Author's Note:**

> I,,, didn't expect to write more for this AU already KJNFKJNSKJ  
> BUT! I did and I'm really excited for you guys to read this!! I honestly had so much fun writing, it lets me have fun with character design and lets me poke in their heads n' shit. >:D
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Comments are appreciated, I'd love some feedback! <3

If you asked Philza when was it that he reached godhood, he’d tell you he was born in it.

Created by the Universe’s own two hands, Philza was born with hands built for creation, with life and prosperity flowing through his veins like river water, and laughter bubbling out his throat like pure oxygen. With eyes the shade of amethyst and great doe antlers, he was the purest form of nature. Upon his creation, he was held in the gentlest of hands, above an empty world just waiting to be explored.

_ “Build your legacy, my dear,” _ the Universe said unto him.  _ “Built until you can no more, build until you must find another world to bless.” _

Philza takes the words to heart, and promises the Universe greatness.

In that same world, Philza learns what it means to create, and what it means to be a god. He raises buildings from dirt, drains oceans with a snap of his fingers, pulls chunks of land from the world’s surface and suspends it in air. He learns to be proud of his creations and his mistakes alike. He holds his mistakes close to his heart and thinks back on them fondly, because even if it is a mistake, it is still a creation and all creations are beautiful.

He learns later on that worlds, much like the people he's come across I'm his travels, are unique. Imperfect and beautiful, with different rules and new technologies and new forms of life. With every world, he finds something new that he can't help but love.

Sometimes, though, despite a world's beauty, it can be rotten.

More than once he's come across worlds big and small, only to find them stripped of their beauty by greasy Lords and Kings lusting for power. Philza watches from afar the way they tear apart their own cities with tyrannical hands; They force their people to their knees, demand full obedience. He watches their subjects cower in fear, starve and freeze to death because of their leader's greed.

Philza is not kind to those who bleed oil and speak curses.

It is in these worlds where he earns his title as the Angel of Death. He does not like the scent of blood, nor does he like the slick of it on his palms, but he does like how it looks spilled across green grass and white snow.

It is to the hands of one of these slimy Kings, that he learns the meaning of falling.

Two men, standing at the edge of a cliff, one with cold amethyst eyes and the other screaming. It is a mistake, really, allowing a King as dastardly as him a moment to breathe. When Philza pushes him, the man is quick to latch on; Not to save himself, but to bring Philza down with him.

And the King laughs, wild and power-hungry when Philza lets himself fall forward into the hands of the wind.

The God of Creation smiles. How ignorant, for a man as pathetic as him to think he can kill a God.

The Universe does not let him fall far. Soft, gentle hands catch him in the form of great wings, dark and powerful. Blessed with the power of flight, Philza watches the King fall to his death mercilessly.

_ "Take these wings and find a place to call home, and I shall bless you a thousand times over,"  _ whispers the Universe. Philza does not waste time.

He finds himself at the top of the coldest mountain in the coldest tundra, half frozen, heart full of warmth. The universe does not shy away from its promise; It blesses him with people of his own to take care of.

And Philza gives them everything, blesses them with each blessing that is bestowed upon himself, until eventually–

Well, we already know how that story goes.

Even centuries after his creation, Philza continues to learn more about himself and the world around him. He learns his hands are built not only to create structures and raise crops from the ground within seconds, but also to give life. He learns this early in the morning, as the Universe whispers plans to him in the sunrise of his bedroom.

_ "You will give life to this world just as you take it away. You've given everything to your people; Give more." _

Standing alongside his first son, the Blood God, Philza watches his own hands bleed upon charred bones; Watches as they shiver, and come to life with new fire behind empty sockets. Distorted, slick with oil and burning blue fire, an army is born within the walls of his Empire.

The Universe beams at him. So does his son.

With the blessing of the Universe on his shoulders, Philza holds himself high and continues his blessings until he can't anymore.

The God of Creation he was named, the God of Creation he shall be.


	2. The Blood God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated! Please enjoy :D

Technoblade knows he’s different from others by the time he is seven years old.

He had a sneaking suspicion that not all five-year-old boys had bright red eyes and floppy ears, they don’t growl or make weird noises. They weren’t fascinated with gold; Their blood didn’t boil to the point where they saw nothing but red when they were angry.

Techno knows this to be true because of Wilbur. His twin brother, who’s everything and nothing like him. They share the same brown hair and button nose and almond-shaped eyes, but Wilbur does not have the same ruby eyes, and he definitely doesn’t squeal like he does. Wilbur’s ears are only a little pointy, and his brown eyes flash the prettiest gold, not red; and his teeth are sharper, while Techno’s are flat, with two large gaps where his bottom canines should be but haven’t grown in yet.

The other boys in the orphanage make it very clear to Techno that he is different. Always last to be picked to play with, pushed to the side during dinner and scowled at in hallways; To them, he is an anomaly, and he knows this. Which is why he stays quiet, watches, and listens. Wilbur is the only one he needs in his life, anyways. Wilbur sticks to his side like glue, sharp teeth flashed in crazy grins and even crazier laughter; Something others flinch away from. Something Technoblade finds comfort in.

On their ninth birthday, the gap between Techno and his peers grows at the introduction of his voices.

Quiet, shy whispers at first. Something he can only hear in the dead of night between his brother’s snores. He listens, intrigued. They grow louder with his attentiveness, to the point where he can hear them begging. Begging for what? He listens closer.

_ ‘Blood for the Blood God’ _ they whisper.  _ ‘Tear apart those who’ve wronged you’ _

Techno does not know who the Blood God is. Something claws the inside of his chest, a wild rush, a cold, demanding scream rattles in his silent throat. Something begs to be let out of its cage; He does not know what.

One week after he and Wilbur turn nine, the voices have gotten louder, more demanding. Their voices rattle off the corners of his mind like a never-ending mantra.  _ ‘Blood for the Blood God’ _ they scream, loud and relentless. Techno does not understand why his body feels so parched, or why he aches to slam the heads of boys four years older than him into the brick walls of the orphanage. He does not understand why he thinks about breaking another kid’s nose just to see the blood pour down their face and stain his knuckles. He does not understand why he wants to taste iron on his tongue.

He does not understand, and yet he gives in anyways.

What was first a simple fight with a boy one year older than him turned into something far bigger than anything he could ever imagine. Techno doesn’t remember anything of the fight, but he does remember red. He remembers a sense of fulfillment when his vision clears, when he finds his own young hands slick with red. When all he can smell is iron, when the voices quiet.

When he sees the boy he fought, lying unmoving on the ground.

He smiles.

That is how the Mistress finds him; Bloody and smiling over an unmoving child. He is forced to run and when she calls for the town guards. It takes hours, but eventually the guards tire of their search for him, the Mistress goes back inside, and the child he fought is taken elsewhere. Techno does not mourn the home he has lost, nor does he mourn for the boy whose blood he spilt. Instead, he rejoices in the freedom he feels, covered in another’s blood. Even if he is shaking from the cold, alone with no warmth to turn back to, he rejoices.

He does not question it when Wilbur shows up by his side an hour later. He only basks in the warmth his smile brings.  
  


* * *

  
He is not fully blessed with his power until after they are taken in by Philza.

He knows Philza is like him --different, dangerous. Something in him reaches out for the older man, holds onto him tightly. The voices take to him well; So well, they do not wish to spill his blood. Techno is grateful for that.

He begins his transformation at age eleven, one year after the man has taken him and Wilbur under his wings. Both physically and spiritually, something changes; Sharp, painful tusks form in the gaps of his bottom row of teeth. They dig into his lip, draw blood and leave his mouth tasting like iron for hours. His hair fades its natural brown shade, turning pink much like the ends of his floppy ears, and he shoots up in height. His nails turn sharp and thick like built-in weapons, one’s he’s accidentally cut himself with more than a thousand times.

His strength grows with his blood-thirst. By the time he is thirteen, Techno can best even the greatest of foes in battle, whether it be with an axe or a sword or just his fists. Philza forbids him from fighting the citizens of his Empire, but Techno finds more than a few ways to keep the voices and himself satisfied. He slays countless mobs in the uncharted territory outside the walls of the Antarctic Empire; He defeats foes in underground fighting arenas, some much bigger than him, some who don’t even have a chance. He doesn’t care, so long as there’s blood on his hands and adrenaline in his veins. So long as the voices shut up.

He earns just as many wounds as he gives, yet they do not last as long. The Universe cradles him close each night, cleans the blood from his body and sews each wound closed with golden thread, places kisses in the form of stars on his bruises, and blesses each new scar that appears.

_ “Forever, our champion.” _ whispers the Universe.

_ ‘Forever the Blood God’ _ whispers the voices.

Forever the Blood God, indeed.


	3. God of Madness and Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly this one was the most difficult to write, but I think the end result was definitely worth it.
> 
> Enjoy!! Comments are appreciated :D

Wilbur Soot does not know the definition of insane, but he enjoys how the weight of the word feels on his tongue.

He first hears it at the age of nine from an older lady in the middle of town. Lip pulled back in a snarl, caution in her eyes; She declared him insane for something he cannot remember. Maybe it was the liquid gold spilt down his shirt. Maybe it was the fact that he was giggling at a little shadow boy who pretended to decapitate said-women. Perhaps it was far simpler than that; Maybe it was because of his thin frame and baggy clothes and too-long curly hair that hid brown eyes that sometimes flashed gold.

He finds he does not care either way. He grins regardless, sharp teeth covered in golden, and it is enough to send her running.

(He will tell Techno about this later, between loose giggles and pauses to spit gold on the concrete flooring of their sleep-spot. And Techno will listen to every word with a softness he shows none else.

He does not need the acceptance of others. Not when Techno smiles at him and does not comment on the ichor that spills from his lips with his laughter. Not when the Universe gently wipes it from his chin and kisses his forehead.)

He knows he is different. He knows not everyone can see the shadows that plague the town, that dance with him late at night when no one but him and the Universe are awake. He knows he is the only one with madness in their veins that rush like a shot of adrenaline. He does not understand the why of it all, but he is not ignorant to his differences.

That is why he embraces every weird look, every whisper of caution that is spoken between children and parents passing by.

It is around their tenth birthday that Wilbur is blessed with voices. To say that he was not surprised would be an understatement; He and Techno were twins, after all. The Universe would not bless one without blessing the other.

His voices are much different. Tall and lanky –three of them to be exact, dressed in shadows with silver-lined grins that stretch along the entirety of their blurred out faces. Wilbur wonders if Techno’s voices have bodies, too, or if it's just him who's blessed with semi-corporeal friends.

They whisper things of greatness to him between hyena laughter, howl of maniac destruction in the dead of night. Wilbur decides he likes these friends just as much as he likes Technoblade.

They grow along with him, as does his power. He learns of the influence he has on those who get too close; How they bleed and laugh and grow loose in their motions, eyes blurred in bliss and madness just like him. He learns his ability to control, to heighten their minds to the edge of slipping, drown out reality with shadowed friends and bumbling hallucinations. He finds beauty in the way the whole town dances, ichor spilling from their lips to stain the path gold. He finds terror in the way his friends scream for things he cannot give; Terror in the way shadowy hands turn against him, tear his flesh apart and choke him till he's blue. When suddenly his friends become puppeteers, him the puppet.

There are days where he cannot save himself. Invisible strings jerk his muscles in their favor, force his mind into submission and make him dance like a jester. His madness bleeds out until he is dancing with shadows twice his size, until the people around him are gouging out their own eyes and setting themselves aflame with mania. It is beautiful. It is terrifying. Wilbur laughs all the same.

(And the universe will cradle him close in the dead of night, when his friends howl too loud and curse insomnia so strong it threatens to swallow him whole. The Universe will push back his hair, wipe away the ichor and whisper, _"Careful, darling. You mustn't let yourself fall through the cracks."_ )

He learns what it means to control with the help of Philza, the man that takes them in with pretty wings that remind him of the Universe. He finds control in the firm of a wooden guitar, in the vibrations that travel over his skin with every plucked string. It is like a breath of fresh air, music is. The moment he picks it up he is born again, filled with light and musical notes; He bends the sound around him with quick fingers against tight strings, quiets his friend's demand for ruin with soft lullabies that speak of gentleness and peace.

He bends the townspeople to his will. The voice of a siren, he lures them to drunken states, dance with each other in town square and live as if the world was created just for them. Music is a different form of madness, he thinks. One much more innocent than bloody howls and shadows. One filled with emotion, rough and raw and so so beautiful.

Here, surrounded by notes high and low, the ichor no longer floods his lungs. Rather, it rushes through his veins and burns his corporeal body from the inside out, which in turn bleeds music into the open frosty air of his forever-home –The home that opened its doors to him in the form of soft wings and gentle arms. It makes the madness in him turn drunken, makes the voices sway.

He does not fully understand his godhood until he is older, when the Universe holds him in its palms after a night where his friends do not care for his music, instead wishing to string him by his own entrails and force him to be their muse. With ichor drenching his shirt and eyes blind with hallucinations, the Universe shoo's away three giggling shadows and kisses him goodnight. It tells him of his future greatness as a bedtime story, between its heartbeat of thunder and supernovae.

_"A bright future ahead of you, my darling God. Your music will take you far, your madness will take you further."_

In the whispers between, as Wilbur gently falls asleep surrounded by the feeling of peace and home; A warning.

_"Heed my cautions, dear boy. You were born for Madness and Music –Do not become greedy. I cannot bear to watch another one of my children die an Icarus."_

The madness in him giggles; The music turns it into a symphony.

With fate etched into his ribs, Wilbur falls asleep in the palms of his creator. The God of Madness and Music sleeps soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fun fact: I very loosely based Wilbur and his three "friends" (aka the shadow-voices) off Maniae! Maniae is the ancient Greek personification of the spirits of Insanity, Madness and Crazed Frenzy. Fun, right? :D


	4. God of Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one definitely feels different compared to the other chapters, but I still like how it turned out, so I hope you do to!! Please enjoy :]]

Tommy has been a force to be reckoned with ever since he could walk.

His godhood showed early, in the form of milky white eyes and razor sharp teeth and stubby antlers that have yet to grow to their full length. Tall and lanky, a beanstalk ever since the age of ten; he is mistaken for that of a cryptid than a god. To him, there is no difference.

By the age of seven, the Universe let go of their restraint, leaving him with a plethora of spite and destruction. Leaving him with Chaos.

He does not mean to destroy –not really. Yet, he cannot help but find pleasure in the middle of burning villages set aflame by his own two hands. He finds beauty in it, a satisfaction so heavy it scratches even the deepest itch in his bones. Ashes floating through the sky, smoke filling his lungs, the sound of people screaming; It's everything he could ever dream of.

However, Tommy doesn't like the hurt it brings. The way it causes guilt to scrape and scream in his ribs, he aches for the innocent caught in the crossfire.

The chaos he favors is much simpler, much softer. It is loud laughter with friends at the crack of dawn, howling at the moon and wresting with brothers and strangers alike in muddy grass, and too many things happening at once where all you can do is laugh until you can't anymore. It is watching the Universe, deep in a crowded forest, pick up trees in mighty hands and crush them just to make Tommy laugh.

He spends a lot of time with the Universe. At a young age, he named her Clara. The Universe took it for what it was: a gift, a blessing bestowed upon her that she would wear with pride.

Tommy loved Clara just as much as Clara loved him. He'd spend hours at the edge of town, hidden under the Universe’s shadows, telling stories to local boys about Clara. Sometimes, Clara was a girl, destined for greatness, blessed to control the stars and breath life into the world. Other times, Clara was a gentle giant, the world a pebble that she kept in her pocket and loved with all of her might. The local boys never believed any of these stories, nor did they believe Clara was real; Something Tommy would giggle about later while cradled in her arms; Something Clara would smile at and bless them with ghostly hugs that felt like home.

As intimately as Tommy knows his Godhood, he does not understand the full of it. He misses the way rowdiness turns dangerous, the way soft laughter turns into cackling, the way games of tag turn to games of wrestling. He doesn't miss the way his hands spark without his permission, popping, little flames searching for anything to love.

It's a mistake really, going into town when his body begs for the warmth of fire surrounding him, but he's hungry and it's worth the risk. He tells himself it's not his fault when flames immediately bounce for the walls of the bakery he's in.

His body relishes in the warmth, his mind buzzes with the sound of the people in the bakery screaming, panicking to get out. He has the decency to help them, of course, but he does not stray from the flames himself. He simply laughs, loud and free and careless; A laugh only Clara could love.

A laugh he thought only Clara could love. Until he met Philza.

Philza washes out his fun and dares to look Tommy in the eyes whilst the flames retreat to his eyes, burning with passion and fury. He goes with him kicking, bleeding spite and chaos that completely goes unnoticed to him.

(He only allows himself to calm when Clara pushes away his hair to press a kiss to his forehead. She whispers, _"It's okay, little spark. They will love you just as deeply as I do."_ )

Tommy finds a safe space in the halls of the castle. He finds his fire cannot burn down those precious to him, his valuables do not explode into color with his touch.

What he does find, is a family that is willing to bleed him dry. One brother who doesn't mind surprise battles in the middle of the day in the middle of the dining room, sticks in hand and shrieking laughter; The other who gladly follows him on trips with local village boys, who will scream songs and howl at the moon and dance with him and others in the middle of a forest his flames beg to make love to.

And a father, who gives him wood blocks for his flames to burn art into; Who cradles him just as gently as Clara does; Who lets him ramble and scream and laugh with no protest.

Tommy learns to have confidence in his Chaos, wears it with pride and sharp grins.

And each night, Clara will tuck him in, press kisses to flaming hands, and sing him goodnight. A melody so sweet from the Universe that he is not the only one to hear it, echoing throughout the castle to his brethren not tied by blood, but tied by the thread of their souls.

" _My child, I will be here with you always, I will love you and every laugh you spill, every creation you set aflame."_ She whispers in the dead of night, falling upon Tommy’s sleeping ears, " _God of Chaos, never let your flame go out. You will need it wherever you go."_

(And Tommy will not hear from Clara for a long, long while. None of them will. A parent must let go of their children eventually, no matter how much it pains them to see their flesh and blood crumble and break and shatter.

For now, Tommy sleeps, and dreams of burning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little mini-series is done! I really enjoyed writing this, and it's given me time to think of a few ideas for the future of this AU :]
> 
> I'll wait for a while before I do anything more with this since I still have other projects I wish to finish, but I absolutely want to continue this at some point!! For now, I hope you enjoyed! Please don't be shy, I'd love to hear feedback!!
> 
> (Yell at me about SBI? @CryptidSunshine on Twitter!)

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me about SBI? @CryptidSunshine on Twitter!


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